The second thing I notice is the guy sitting on the black pleather couch against the far wall. Purple shirt. Dark jeans. Devilish good looks…
Ah, hell.
I knew he looked familiar at the funeral yesterday but now, without sunglasses covering his dark brown eyes, there’s no doubt.
“Daren Ackwood,” I say.
He grins up at me and a dimple appears. “Kayla Turner.”
You know how some people are so good-looking you just want to stare at them with your mouth open? Daren is that kind of handsome.
No. Handsome isn’t the right word.
He’s beautiful.
And he has been since he was a kid.
His dark brown hair is short and styled in a messy way that looks like he just rolled out of bed and into a Hot Guy catalogue, and matches the thick eyebrows arching over a pair of chocolate-colored eyes. A golden tan dusts the skin of his corded neck and the sinewy muscles of his forearms, stretching out from rolled-up sleeves and down to long, sturdy fingers. And his mouth is a distraction in itself, all full lips and white teeth, as the edge of his smile dips into that one naughty dimple on his left cheek. He looks like pure trouble.
His devastating good looks, in combination with his family’s ridiculous wealth, drew every girl in Copper Springs to him like a magnet—or so I heard.
After age five, I only visited this town once a year so I didn’t have a lot of time to make friends. I really only had one close friend in town, Lana, who moved away after high school. But when I was thirteen and Daren started doing yard work for my dad, Lana was beside herself, always making up excuses to come over to my house so she could drool over him. It was ridiculous how smitten she was. And she wasn’t the only one.
Soon everyone in town knew Daren worked for my dad, so anytime I’d meet a local girl she would always ask the same giggly thing: “Do you know Daren Ackwood?”
The answer was no. I didn’t know Daren Ackwood. I saw him through the kitchen window sometimes, and I was always aware of him when he was working in the yard—especially when he didn’t have a shirt on—but I didn’t know Daren Ackwood, and he didn’t know me. We never spoke. We never interacted. Frankly, I’m surprised he knows my name.
For a moment we just stare at each other, him seated leisurely with his legs spread apart and me standing in my last pair of high heels with a bored expression.
“It’s good to see you.” His eyes slip over me with another dirty smile lifting up his clean-shaven face.
Oh, he’s trouble, all right. The kind of trouble I can’t afford to get into.
I’ve heard more stories than I care to admit about Daren’s sexual prowess. All through high school, Lana kept me up to date on all things Copper Springs, including Daren the Woman Whisperer—that’s what she called him.
According to Lana, and every other girl at Copper Springs High, Daren was some kind of god in bed. I doubt any of the things she told me were true, but they certainly gave Daren quite the reputation.
Regardless of the rumors, I know his type. They charm and seduce and leave a trail of broken hearts in their wake. I have no intention of being a left-behind heart. Not for Daren or anyone else. So I’m careful to keep my expression neutral as I glance over his wrinkled clothes.
“Nice outfit,” I say. “Did you forget to go home last night?” I raise a judgmental eyebrow, just to drive home my disapproval.
His dirty smile grows. “Something like that.”
Whore.
“Oh, hello! You must be Kayla.” An older gentleman with thick white eyebrows and balding hair and a cheerful expression emerges from a door at the back of the office. His short, round frame wades through the minefield of papers and over to me. “I’m Eddie Perkins.” He holds out his hand.
I shake it firmly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Perkins.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. Turner,” he says. “Though I wish it were under different circumstances.” His cheery face sobers. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Yes, yes. My dad is dead. We’re all sad.
I smile politely. “Thank you.”
“I’m pleased that you showed up,” he says. “Your father didn’t think you’d come, you know, but I’m glad you proved him wrong.” He smiles warmly then looks around. “Now where… are my… glasses…?” He pats down his suit coat and turns around in a circle as he searches the pockets of his pants.
“On your head, Eddie,” Daren says.
He taps his head until his hand smacks against the reading glasses propped in his sparse white hair. “Oh! There they are.” He smiles as he pulls the glasses down and sets them on his face. “I’m always forgetting where I put them. Now”—he clasps his hands together—“since everyone is here should we get right down to it?”
I look around and pause. “Everyone?”
The lawyer pulls off the glasses he just put on. “Yes. You and Mr. Ackwood were the only two requested.” He shoves a hand into his inner coat pocket and comes up empty, muttering, “Now… where is my handkerchief?”
Wrinkling my brow, I say, “My dad asked that Daren be here?”
“Yes. Oh, here it is.” The lawyer pulls a yellow handkerchief from his back pocket and starts cleaning his glasses.
I blink a few times. “Why?”
Daren answers, “Your dad owes me some baseball cards.”
I stare at him. “Huh?”
“You are both here to sign papers, Ms. Turner.” Mr. Perkins tucks the handkerchief into his coat pocket and props the eyeglasses back on his face. “But first we need to go over your father’s will.” He scratches his head. “Where did I put the will?” He looks at his messy desk. “It was just here a moment ago.” He shuffles a few papers around then starts digging through a tall filing cabinet.
“By the coffee pot,” Daren says.
“Oh, that’s right.” Eddie smiles as he retrieves my father’s paperwork from a small kitchenette in the corner.
I love that my father’s will was carefully filed between a set of ceramic mugs and a bottle of powdered coffee creamer.
“I still don’t understand,” I say.
Mr. Perkins looks at me and shrugs. “Perhaps your father’s baseball card collection is why Mr. Ackwood’s presence was requested.”
“It’s actually my collection,” Daren corrects. “Turner was just holding on to the cards for me. Kind of.”
I look at Daren first then the lawyer. “I thought my father didn’t have any belongings to bestow to anyone. I thought he gave everything away before he died.”
“Most everything.” Mr. Perkins gestures to the couch. “Please. Have a seat.”
I look at my only seating option and inwardly groan. Daren is sitting on the fake leather couch with one tan arm stretched over the backrest while the other casually hangs off the armrest, stretching out his broad chest, and his right leg expands out with his opposite ankle propped on the knee. God. Could he take up any more space?
His brown eyes dance with amusement like he knows just how obnoxious his splayed-out limbs are and is waiting to see how I react. I pointedly avert my gaze and situate myself on the far end of the sofa, squeezing my hips as close to the other armrest as possible to avoid touching him. He looks at me with a hint of a smile. I ignore him and cross my legs with a deep inhale.
Daren smells good. Really good. Like oranges or lemons or something. Clean and fresh.
How in the hell does he smell good when he’s wearing a walk-of-shame outfit and yesterday’s deodorant?
Mr. Perkins leans his round frame against his cluttered desk as he silently reads through the will then looks up. “What it comes down to is this: Mr. Turner donated Milly Manor to the town of Copper Springs and designated a few personal items to some of his close friends.”
I tilt my head. “He left personal items to friends?”
He nods. “There were a few things he wanted to give to his loved ones.” He refers to the papers. “He donated all of his books to the local library. He left his golfing equipment to Gus Ferguson—you might know him as Golf Cart Gus. And his antique furniture and record collection he gave to Valerie Oswald.”
I bite my tongue to keep from cursing. My father donated everything but a handful of possessions, and of course he left those things to a guy named Golf Cart Gus and some woman I’ve never heard of before. Typical James Turner. Slighting his daughter, even in death.
“Of course, Gus and Valerie weren’t requested for the reading today because Mr. Turner settled his affairs with them before his passing.” Eddie pushes his glasses up with a plump finger and looks at us. “Which brings us to his unfinished business with the two of you.” He leafs through the folder and distractedly says, “Although I don’t believe… it concerns Mr. Turner’s… baseball card collection.”
“It’s actually my collection,” Daren repeats.